Goodbye Apathy
by windscryer
Summary: "So help me, Caffrey, you better not actually give a damn right now because if you're just doing this to screw with me—" "What? What will you do?" Neal asked, not a flicker of genuine interest or concern in his eyes.


I actually sat down to write to the prompt of "ennui". My Muse apparently got confused and went for "apathy" instead. *shrugs*

Disclaimer: Neal's collar would be a literal one around his neck instead of an anklet if I was in charge of the show. What? I like collars, okay? We all have our kinks. DON'T JUDGE ME FOR MINE. :P

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><p>It was the silence that finally forced Peter to admit that something was off. That and the third female agent that brought them coffee without prompting and spent the whole time shooting not-so-surreptitious looks at Neal that were shaded with pity and, much to Peter's discomfort, the desire to... He didn't even know. Hug him or flirt with him or something.<p>

Not that Caffrey noticed. He was too busy working diligently on his casework, reading endless boring reports and jotting down notes.

That was the other thing. 'Diligent' and 'Caffrey' only belonged next to each other in a _very_ abridged dictionary.

Which is not to say that Neal couldn't dedicate himself to a cause he deemed worthy but... this was not one of those causes. And even if he did buckle down and really get into a case he was never so absorbed that he wasn't making jokes or spinning theories aloud.

Peter was pretty sure that Neal couldn't be mute even if you cut his tongue out. He might not be intelligible, but then he didn't always make sense _with_ his tongue at his disposal.

It wasn't that he was angry or depressed either. Peter had seen both of those, the former with the muscles so tense you could probably play a sonata on them and the latter while exuding an air that would make a kicked puppy feel like an asshole for showing too much self-absorption.

This was just... apathy. Complete and total not-giving-a-shit at its finest.

"All right. What is it?"

"What's what?" Neal asked, eyes never leaving his file.

"This," Peter said, waving a hand to indicate all of Neal.

Neal looked up in time to catch the gesture and shrugged. "Paperwork?"

"Not _that_. I know what paperwork is."

Neal shrugged again and looked back down, but didn't offer any witty rejoinders.

"What's with the attitude?"

"What attitude?"

"THIS attitude!" Peter's emotions were rising in direct proportion to how much Neal's emotions were staying right where they were.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Peter." Calm, even, not a hint of teasing or anger or amusement. He might as well have announced that the paint on the walls was white.

"So help me, Caffrey, you better not actually give a damn right now because if you're just doing this to screw with me—"

"What? What will you do?" Neal asked, not a flicker of genuine interest or concern in his eyes.

Which completely and totally killed Peter's ability to threaten him. The other person caring was a vital piece of the equation of a threat.

Peter scowled. "I'll send you back to prison." He tried to make it as firm and sincere a statement as he could, but he wasn't sure if he succeeded since there was still nothing in the dull blue eyes or the slightest bit of hesitation in the pen strokes of Neal's hand.

"Okay."

"_Okay_? Neal, I'm talking about sending you back to do another two years in supermax."

Neal shrugged. "If that's what you think you should do, Peter, then you should do it."

"No, I don't think that's what I should do! I'm just—" He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. There was, apparently, no other way around this. He set down his pen, closed the case file he'd been reading over, and sat back in his chair.

"What's wrong?"

Neal's eyes rose from where they'd returned to his own paperwork. "I'm sorry?"

"What's. Wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," Peter said flatly, more dubious statement than question.

Neal shrugged. "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

Neal sighed and sat up straight. "Peter, what do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say what's wrong. You're Neal Caffrey. You dress like a cartoon and you act like an ADHD kindergartner high on sugar most of the time. You'll forgive me for seeing extreme apathy as a departure from the norm and therefore worthy of concern. Now what's wrong?"

Neal just stared back. "Nothing's wrong," he repeated. "I just don't..." He shrugged. "...Feel like being chipper today. Not everyone can be happy all the time, Peter."

"You can."

Neal arched an eyebrow and quirked his lips—not into a smile, just...

"You _can_. I chased you for three years, Neal, and I've worked with you for two since. Even if you're not happy everyday, you're not like this. You're a passionate man. Your feelings are very transparent—even when they're manufactured."

Neal just shrugged. _Again_. Peter was tempted to shoot him the next time he did that.

"Well then the passion is on vacation today, I guess."

He went back to his work and Peter watched him closely for three minutes. He was waiting for Neal to break, to look up and shoot him an annoyed glare and insist that he was fine and that if that wasn't good enough he could probably do a very good rendition of being pissed the hell off. Or start chuckling until it turned into full blown laughter, tears of mirth gathering at the corners of his eyes as he doubled over.

He just kept working.

Peter's eyes narrowed, then he gave up with a sigh.

"Fine. Go."

The first emotion of the day showed up in the form of confusion. Peter tried not to feel a thrill of victory.

"Go," he repeated and made a shooing motion with his hand. "Get out of here. You're depressing everyone and that's not why we keep you around."

Neal hesitated a moment longer, then started cleaning up his files.

As he was about to walk out the door, Peter stopped him. "Neal."

He looked back. "Yes, Peter?"

"Talk to someone. Mozzie or June or, hell, even Elle. Just talk to someone about whatever it is, okay?"

Neal's brow furrowed briefly, then he nodded. "Okay, Peter," he said neutrally. "I will."

Peter watched him as he returned the stack of files to his desk, slipped on his jacket and placed his hat on his head. No twirling, flipping, or rolling up his arm, just set it on his head at an angle that was more accident than jaunty intention. When he vanished into the elevator, Peter wiped a hand over his face.

That kid was going to be the death of him.

o.o

Neal walked down the street, hands hanging loosely at his sides, expression blank, just another human being in a city of millions, until he reached the corner where he made his turn. Then it was like a switch was flicked.

One hand went into his pocket to retrieve his phone, the other rose to resettle his hat at an angle, and his stride loosened into his usual causal gait, his lips simultaneously stretching into a grin. He nodded at a couple of pretty girls walking the other way.

"Afternoon," he greeted them with a wink and they giggled and smiled back.

The hand with the phone punched a number in, then brought it up to his ear.

"It worked. I'm out."

"Finally! What was he waiting for? You to start growing moss?"

Neal laughed. "You know Peter, Mozzie. He thinks everything I do is a con."

"He's right about that, you know."

"He is not."

"He is."

"You're agreeing with a federal agent right now, Moz," Neal pointed out, keeping the smirk from his voice as best he could. He savored the distressed "Urk!" sound that followed, then benevolently gave it up. "Did you get it?"

"Of course I got it. How could I not when your task that was _supposed_ to take an hour took four and a half?"

"It's not my fault Peter was feeling masochistic today."

"Yes, because it's not like you didn't train him into that over a three year chase."

Neal laughed. "He never had to accept the gauntlet I threw down."

"I'm going to ignore that completely absurd statement and remind you that we are now very behind in an already tight schedule."

"Relax, Moz. We've got plenty of time."

"A statement I will, again, remind you of when they're conducting the body cavity searches."

Neal grimaced. "Whoa. Hey now. Please. That was a mental image I never needed in my head, okay?"

"Next time don't dawdle then."

The call ended and Neal sighed as he pulled the phone from his ear. Then he grinned with anticipation and set off down the street, not even bothering to try suppressing the whistled tune on his lips.

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><p>I might have written a <em>few<em> stories before getting up the courage to dip my toe in the waters in this fandom. Love any comments you guys have, if you would be so kind as to share! :)

Cheers,

Maja


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